


Riders on the Storm

by ARedHairing



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Smut, and the impala because of course, it's sort of just an excuse for smut, with a little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedHairing/pseuds/ARedHairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two years since the Gates of Heaven and Hell were finally closed and two months since the last hunt.  Dean is old, tired, and useless - then Castiel decides to show up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riders on the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xtinethepirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtinethepirate/gifts).



> Because Xtiney was having a bad day and smut seemed like a good cure. Sadly (for her, and ~awesomely~ for everyone else) she also had to beta the hell out of her own gift. Of course, the fic is actually readable thanks to her, and any and all mistakes remaining are my own.
> 
> This is just a bit of smut with a bit of angst and some snow.

Dean could feel the storm coming.

There was nothing unusual in that; there was always a storm on the horizon for Dean: floods, winds, destruction, death. Sometimes, it was even Death.

This felt just like that.

The coming storm was almost a relief; it had been months since a hunt, since the need to hunt. It’d been two years since the gates of Hell were closed, the gates of Heaven shut, since….

Dean knew the second he mentioned any of this to Sammy that another storm, and an uglier one than the weather outside, would break in here. Sam would give him _that look_ , brow furrowed and hesitant like he knew whatever he was going to say would set Dean off. Sam would bite his lip and try to keep his eyes from drifting to the empty chair at the table, to the empty room in the bunker...

...and Dean wouldn’t let him finish, wouldn’t even let him start. He grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the kitchen without a word, startling Sam; Sam, who was not privy to the way Dean’s inner dialogue had played the conversation, because fuck that. He did not need Sam’s pity, Sam’s big sappy, doe eyes, Sam’s happily-even-after that did not exist.

Outside, he looked up at the sky and wished for snow. He wouldn’t say “pray”; he wouldn’t even think the word, never would again, and it didn't matter whether the asshole was dead, or just no longer angelic, or whatever. If he even started thinking that way it invoked the missing part of Dean, the empty chair, the one who always left.

Praying meant Cas, and that was an exercise in futility. Except when it worked; sometimes that was worse.

It always seemed worse the times Castiel listened.

Still, enough of it must have leaked through, Dean’s not-praying, because the headlights that came down the road out of the gloom announced the arrival of an old Buick. Dean waited, watched, shoved his already numb hands into his pockets. He knew what was coming, knew _who_ was coming, but lacked the faith to believe even as Castiel exited the driver’s side. He refused to believe even as Castiel walked toward him, as Castiel waited then, slowly, came and stood next to Dean. Even Castiel’s sigh defied belief, was unexpected in the same way Dean felt about every new monster that he’d ever encountered.  

He wanted to ask Castiel why he was here, why now, why he’d bothered, but Dean, for once, held his peace; he’d asked too many times, and the answer had never been comfortable. He knew this time would be no different, so he waited, impatiently and with no small amount of anger, for Cas to explain where he had been (how was he not dead? why had he waited so long to tell Dean that he wasn’t dead?) and why he had come back this time.

Everything was done--Armageddon, Kevin, Abaddon, the Metatron, even Crowley--Cas had no goddamn reason to be here.

Castiel, however, was apparently content with the silence, or was simply waiting for Dean; he stood silently where he’d joined Dean, ass resting against the Impala. Dean knew his shortcomings were many, and patience was definitely not among his few virtues, but he tried. He tried so hard, for so long, and yet, six minutes in, as he listened to Castiel breathe, felt the warmth of the man just within touching distance, he couldn’t take the quiet, anymore.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

That’s all it took for Dean to snarl and move lightning fast, to pin Castiel against the car with his forearm to Cas’s throat.

“ _Why?_ ” Dean would have laughed, if such a thing were still possible.

“Why indeed, Dean? Why would you have prayed for me to still be alive? For me to be here?”

Castiel’s words, the truth in them, fueled Dean’s anger, and he pushed harder against Cas’s throat, teeth ground together.

“Bullshit,” he snarled. “Don’t you dare try that with me. I know exactly what happened when hell and heaven closed up shop: no more angel radio for you; no more visits to Earth; no more prayers, no more feeding on the thoughts, the hopes, of schmucks like me.”

Had Dean been in a forgiving mood, had Dean not been so angry, he would have been amused at the way Cas rolled his eyes, at the near human way that Cas exuded annoyance.

“I pulled you from Hell,” he reminded Dean.

“And haven’t let me forget it since,” Dean fired back.

“ _You_ haven’t let you forget,” Cas said, a quiet rebuff. “I freed you from Hell, I fell for you, I fought your for you, by your side. I know you, Dean. I don’t need ‘angel radio’ to hear you pray for me.”

The words were so true, and it was nothing that Dean hadn’t thought time and time again to himself. He was the reason Cas had fallen, the reason Cas had lost his Grace--the first time, and second, most recent time--he was the reason that Cas had lost his own family. And he’d do it all again, even with the knowledge of what the cost would be for Cas. The knowing look that Castiel gave him told him as much, and Dean turned away in disgust.

“Fuck you,” Dean said as started to walk back toward the bunker. “Just leave. No one wants you here. _I_ don’t want you here. I don’t need this shit.”

“You should show me more respect than that,” Cas said mildly.

Dean heard the words and the echo from so many years past, and was lost. Every time.

He abruptly turned back toward Cas, back toward the tempest that was his fallen angel. Just like that. His hands fell to his side; he was as much at a loss for what to do with them as he was what to say. 

“There’s gray at your temples now,” Cas said before Dean could speak again. He reached out, barely a brush against Dean’s forehead, feathering the gray hair there. It was worse now, this touch, worse than Dean remembered: the angelic power was gone, the “higher being” gone, and yet, Dean was just as uncomfortable with Castiel’s touch as ever.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a few years since you were around. I’m old now.” It was a statement, not meant this time for hurt or as a weapon, so Dean didn't understand why Cas suddenly frowned.

“I am,” Dean shrugged. It wasn’t his age that bothered him so much as the uselessness that came with that age. The lack of anything to do, the lack of a hunt, the sitting around, playing Men-of-Letters with Sammy.

Cas frowned, reached out to Dean. That sympathy was worse in so many ways, that Castiel, the soul of thousands of years of knowledge, couldn’t know how Dean felt just sitting around doing nothing. Not doing the only thing he had ever been good at.

“I have nothing beyond hunting,” Dean had to make Cas understand at least this, to teach him this. Dean’s voice was loud, louder than necessary, even to him, and an abstract part of him heard it and cringed. But having spoken the truth, shared the truth, felt better, even for its reality. Dean is beyond redemption. No amount of taking down the bad guys, no amount of saving people could ever redeem him.

But the hunting, the _saving_ at least some of the people, the trying to do some good, even for a day, was all Dean had had. Now even that was gone. The knowledge that it had been the right thing to do did not stop Dean from wishing it had never happened.

He ran a hand down his face and sighed. “I’m doomed, Cas.”

Castiel was unmoved. “That’s true,” he agreed. Agreed so readily that Dean’s anger flared back up just as quick as it had disappeared: he wanted to punch Castiel, even had his fist ready. “You are. You and Sam both.”

Castiel saw Dean's aggressive posture and shrugged. “Do you wish me to lie to you? Glossing over the truth would make no difference, especially when you know better. Life is not fair, Dean. You know this; you’ve known it for a long time.”

Of fucking course Dean knew that. Outside of Sammy, and maybe Cas (and Bobby. Kevin. Dad. Jo. Ellen. They all knew it.) no one knew it better. Dean shrugged. What could he say?

This back and forth had Dean on a razor’s edge; he wanted the levee to break already. Let it be done, let him drown.

He looked up toward the heavens, toward the stars hidden behind black clouds. He wasn’t just old (and after the lives--and deaths--he’d had, 40 was _beyond_ old) but he was tired. So fucking tired.

“Cas--”

“Do you know why I left?”

Dean’s heart seized at the sudden question. A low rumble rolled in his ears, and he paused for a long minute--thunder-snow was a new one for him--before snorting. “Because you’re good at it?”

Castiel nodded. “Because you make it easy.”

If Dean thought the question had been bad, but the answer was worse. He could only stare at Castiel before sliding down the Impala, almost to a squat. “Yeah, well,” he cleared his throat to no avail, “I’m good at that. Ask anyone.”

“You misunderstand,” Castiel was in his line of sight now, a frown on his face. “You’re good at it because you want to be.”

“Yeah, thanks, that clears that right up.”

“That,” Castiel continued dryly, “is exactly what I mean.” 

Before Dean could counter, before he could tell Castiel exactly where he could stick his “explanation,” his reappearance, and his pulling Dean from fucking Hell reminder, Cas took Dean’s hand in his.

The next thunderclap, eerily muffled though it was, made Dean jump.

“You wanted me gone.”

And, yeah, Dean couldn’t argue with that. He _still_ wanted Cas gone. A storm like this, one that had been brewing for years, never meant good news when it broke.This one would be no different.

“That's why I left.” Cas lifted a shoulder while his thumb rubbed circles on the back of Dean’s hand. His eyes never left Dean’s face.

Dean could not argue with that. Cas had left; left like it was nothing for him, like Dean and Sam and the world they fought to save were nothing. He left again and again and _again_. Dean didn’t blame him, just like he didn’t blame all the people who had left before, and since, Cas.

It still hurt.

“You’re being purposely stupid,” Castiel said, which was enough to snap Dean’s eyes back to Cas’s face, away from where their hands were still held together, away from the black sky above.

“You’ve become a caricature of Dean Winchester, with your self-loathing and the bad jokes and worse sex, the ‘poor me’ and the ‘why is fate so unfair.’ Even when you broke Fate herself to your will you bemoaned your perceived lack of fortune.”

And goddamn it if Dean didn’t want to lash out, to strike back, and he would like to think that he tried. He tried to tug his hand free of Cas’s, tried to snap back with some quip, anything to defuse the honesty and discomfort, but nothing worked. As Cas gripped his hand harder and stared at Dean, Dean could very easily remember why Cas warned him to respect him, why Dean feared him at times. All the time. At least at times like this.

Dean opened his mouth, then promptly closed it at Cas’s unblinking warning.

“Don’t ask that,” Cas warned, as though he knew what Dean was going to say. Dean wouldn’t have put it past him, to be honest. Even this not-connected-to-Heaven Castiel was a force to be wary of.

“You’re the one that’s stupid,” Dean muttered instead, glancing at the treetops that bowed in the wind.

“In that we agree,” Castiel laughed as he dropped Dean’s hand. To Dean’s surprise and discomfort, he did not move back, but instead trapped Dean between the door of the Impala and the maelstrom he contained.

“I did not know ignorance before you, Dean Winchester. And without ignorance, one cannot question. Or learn new ideas, find new questions to ask...to find _which_ questions to ask.”

It wasn’t just the electricity in the air that caused the hair on Dean’s neck to stand up, cause his heart to start racing, cause him to want so hard to lean into what Castiel was finally offering him.

He just couldn’t step off that cliff; the fall to the bottom was too steep.

Castiel stared at him for a moment, disappointment clear on his face, still so close to Dean’s. “Caricature,” he repeated softly, sadly. “I could walk away from you now, get into that car, drive away, and you would not come after me.” Castiel looked upward, to the heaven that had been his home for so long, before looking back at Dean. “I would not ask you to follow me, or look for me,” he added, head tilted to the side.

Dean shook his head; they both knew he wouldn’t, even if asked. Instead he said, “I always asked too much from you.” He knew, at least in part, that it wasn’t what Castiel meant, but it too was the truth. Even when Cas was upstairs fighting a civil war, Dean had always asked for his help, put the needs (and they were needs, damn it) of his family ahead of Cas and _his_ family.

“Sometimes,” Castiel agreed. “You tried my patience and my resolve to my cause, Dean. But it was not always a bad thing, because you also taught me to think. I tried your patience too. It’s a…” he paused here, thinking. “Sam calls it a transaction that never fails to lay stress on a plus and a minus.”

Dean had nothing to say to that, nothing that made sense--Sam would say something stupid like that, would infect Castiel with that granola eating level of bullshit--when Castiel laughed, a dry, brittle laugh that has nothing to do with humor. He invaded Dean’s personal space, still unblinking, his breath warm against Dean’s face, and God, no angels in heaven could have stopped Dean from licking his lips in response.

Castiel’s eyes darkened. It was not at all surprising to Dean when Castiel finally gave up. He could see it in the way Cas melted a bit, followed Dean’s tongue with heavy eyes. He saw it in the way Cas’s shoulders fell, and Dean wanted to apologize but he was too scared to meet Cas’s eyes again.

When Cas closed the space between them, putting his hands on the roof of the Impala and his lips on Dean’s, _then_ Dean was surprised for a second: he was surprised at the way the world quieted around them in that moment, how he could hear his heart in his chest, the way Castiel’s fingers rubbed against the top of the car, the same breath he could feel from Cas’s lips on his own.

It was Castiel’s turn to tell Dean to shut up, to stop being so stupid, and he told Dean this more than once, against Dean’s mouth, against his neck, when his hands slid to Dean’s hips; when Dean, surprised, found his hands in Castiel’s hair, he found Cas actually smiling at him, and Dean wanted to scream and laugh and run away.

When he thought how he had been kissing Cas back, how he could feel Cas’s cock, hard, against his thigh (and, worse, realized that he was just as hard, straining against his jeans), he tried to do just that: run. Run far, run fast, and keep going. Except Cas had him pinned against his own car, and there was an irony in it that even Dean could almost appreciate as his head fell back against the top of the Impala.

He noticed then that the wind hadn’t died down as he’d actually thought, but was blowing with a fierceness that surprised him. He could feel Castiel watching him, could still feel the hardness of him against his thigh. He licked his lips and felt the cold wind dry them instantly.

“The dreams where I drown, where the riptide pulls me away, and the water crashes over my head, and I let it, let myself die...those, Cas? Those are the best dreams I have.”

And Castiel understood. Dean knew Cas had his own demons, his own regrets, and he could see how Castiel was about to open his mouth, about to tell Dean something about symbolism, about baptism through floods and death, and goddamn it Dean did not want to hear it. He reached out for Cas’s stupid fucking trenchcoat, and God, how was he even warm in the damn thing, and fit his mouth against Castiel’s.

Dean had absolutely no idea how this would work--not the kissing part, or the fucking part (and his cock gave a painful jump against his zipper at that)--but how the _Cas_ part would work. He’d ask, but the moment he tried, Cas was biting at his lip. Dean groaned in surprise, fingers digging into Cas’s hips.

Castiel had Dean pinned against his car, thighs pushed against Dean’s as he worked his hands under Dean’s shirt, pulling it loose and it was all Dean could do to hold on, caught up in the whirlwind of Cas. Maybe Dean should have worried about himself though, because, Jesus, Cas was doing just fine.

He sucked in a breath as Cas’s fingers moved along the band of Dean’s jeans toward his zipper with more dexterity and ease than Dean would have believed, had he thought about this (which he hadn’t, not really, not often).

“I’m going go fuck you,” Castiel said against Dean’s mouth and Dean’s eyes flew open.

“Holy fuck,” he managed to croak and, for the first time in ages, he watched as Castiel laughed.

“Not quite.”

He smirked at Dean, and God, Dean knew that expression, knew where Cas learned that particular curl of his lip, and he felt the panic start up again suddenly. He closed his eyes and stilled, because this, all of this, was his fault.

“Dean.”

Cas’s hands at his hips stilled and Dean didn't want to open his eyes. There were too many conflicted feelings; his head felt like the gale was blowing through it, thoughts scattering everywhere. When Cas lay his cheek against Dean’s, he closed his eyes tighter.

“I am going to fuck you,” Castiel repeated, punctuating each word with a kiss to Dean’s chin, and Dean’s hips responded with a jerk, “but not right now.”

Dean’s eyes did open at that, and Castiel was still smirking, still knew how to push Dean’s buttons. Cas held Dean’s gaze as he worked Dean’s jeans undone. “It’s a little too cold out for that,” he continued.

Dean knew that, even if he had forgotten it at the moment; his blood was on fire, he was throbbing.

“Car?” he half-heartedly suggested. He was so scared, fucking ready to bolt, and yet he could feel wave after wave crashing over his head, and he was scared to drown, to die, yes, and yet, he was so ready for it.

Castiel shook his head and Dean couldn't help a wave of relief that disappeared as quickly as it came when Cas dropped to his knees.

Cas didn’t pause, but moved smoothly, reaching through Dean’s boxers and curling his fingers around the head of Dean’s cock. He gently tugged it free, and leaned forward to place a kiss along the underside.

“Oh my God,” Dean managed, unable to stop his hips from thrusting forward in a not-so-subtle plea.

“Oh _Cas_ ,” he corrected before the man in question licked a path from the underside of Dean’s cock to the head, and gently sucked the tip into his mouth. Cas rubbed one hand against his own thigh to warm it before reaching back into Dean’s boxers, deftly cupping Dean’s balls. Dean moaned louder than the wind, babbling as Cas worked his mouth down Dean’s cock, fingers rolling and touching.

Dean’s head was thrown back and he distantly felt the wind cooling his fiery cheeks as he thrust against Cas’s mouth and, slowly, he brought a hand up to touch Cas on the head. He was rewarded by Castiel taking him deep in his mouth, and it was sloppy--Dean jumped at the feel of teeth scraping the bottom of his cock--but fuck, it felt so good.

Dean might be stupid, but he wasn't dumb. He tangled both hands in Cas’s hair and thrust, trying to be gentle, trying to be considerate, but felt his tenuous grip on rational ability slipping as fast as Cas’s lips moved against his cock.

Castiel listened, felt as Dean, very loudly at times, let him know exactly what he liked, even if Dean wouldn’t tell him with words. He hummed an unintelligible “stupid” against Dean’s cock, sliding a finger, wet with his saliva, behind Dean, and rubbed, without pushing. 

“Caaaass,” Dean manages, and there was no youth to blame, no “haven’t had any in a while”--the redhead in the bar down in town last week had been easy and willing and warm, but fuck, she hadn’t been this good, she hadn’t been _Cas_ \--but Cas’s mouth was deep and warm, and his fingers were wandering magic and his hair taut under Dean’s fingers and he _couldn't._

He barely managed a warning in time. Cas pulled back and quickly spat in his hand before fisting Dean’s cock in uneven, sloppy strokes that didn't matter when Cas looked up at him with sore, reddened lips and flushed cheeks. Dean seized, pulling Cas’s hair harder than necessary, purposefully, and watched as Cas groaned too as he came in Cas’s hand.

Dean managed to come back to himself when the cold started to sink in several moments later. His dick was cold and Cas was resting his head against Dean’s knee. He bit his lip, tried not to think, to believe that he was back above water.

Cas stood unsteadily, pulled him in for a kiss as he tucked and zipped Dean back up. Dean hesitated only for a moment before reaching for Cas, to repay the favor, but Castiel laughed dryly.

“No need.”

Cas’s voice was raspier than usual, and that too was Dean’s fault, because Cas had just had Dean’s cock down his throat. It took him a moment to register what Cas meant, and his eyes went wide.

“Next time,” Cas said, and Dean couldn't tell if it was more of a promise or a threat, and he swallowed hard, believed it was both, while he looked up at the sky.

It’s then that Dean recognized the cool wetness he felt on his cheeks was snow, realized that the storm had started. It was coming down fast and hard and silent. He reached for Cas’s waist as the snow drifted against his feet and the Impala's tires, and the air rumbled with muted thunder.

 


End file.
